


Osculationis

by Alvitr



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV), Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell - Susanna Clarke
Genre: Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, latin poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-17 00:34:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4645788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alvitr/pseuds/Alvitr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Norrell. Childermass. Lots and lots of kissing. And some naughty Latin poetry. There's not much more to say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Osculationis

**Author's Note:**

> Written to fulfill the following jsmn_kinkmeme prompt:
> 
> I want these two to FINALLY end up kissing, then doing it for hours. 
> 
> Thoughts:  
> -Childermass teaching Norrell how to kiss because he's so inexperienced (and Norrell as a quick learner)  
> -Just when Norrell thinks it can't get any better, Childermass sucks/bites his bottom lip and all hell breaks loose  
> -Childermass mumbling encouragement into his master's mouth  
> -NOISY Norrell losing his self-control  
> -Lots of face-petting and hair-touching (and Norrell freeing Childermass' hair and digging his little hands into it)  
> -A moment of not!kissing where they recover, and just breathe into each other's mouths, lips touching, before kissing again  
> -Moving about whilst kissing (e.g. first they're standing, then sitting, then Norrell is propped on his desk, then against the bookcase...)  
> -One of them coming from kissing alone  
> -There's no pressure for it to become sex (but if it does I would be thrilled) because they're just enjoying kissing so much.
> 
> I JUST WANT MY OTP TO KISS FOREVER PLEASE!

_Mellitos oculos tuos, Iuventi,_   
_si quis me sinat usque basiare,_   
_usque ad milia basiem trecenta_   
_nec numquam videar satur futurus,_   
_non si densior aridis aristis_   
_sit nostrae seges osculationis._

Catullus 48

 

Gilbert Norrell was not well liked at Giggleswick School. That did not trouble him; for he did not like Giggleswick much either, nor any of the other boys who were his classmates, nor the headmaster. He spent his days doing his utmost to imitate a ghost, fading in among the gloomy stone passages and grim, iron-colored skies. And indeed he looked very much like a ghost to the other boys, with his pale, almost translucent skin, messy chestnut hair, pale gray eyes (which blinked rapidly when he perceived anyone looking at him for a long time), and solemn, tight little mouth, like a sort of pinkish gash across the lower part of his face.

 

He spent much of his time in the library. He was trying hard to improve his Latin, for he knew it would be important if he were to learn more about magic. So he searched for texts he had not already been set to translate in his lessons and so made his way through Virgil, Cicero, and Caesar. Now he had begun Catullus, which was rather difficult for him – far more difficult than even the long-winded Cicero had been – for Catullus was full of _humor_ , and also other things – things which Gilbert did not precisely understand, but which made him somewhat uncomfortable. The whole time he worked away at the verses, he had an uneasy sense that he should not be reading this at all, and that if the Latin master happened to wander in and espy what book he had open before him, he would be in terrible trouble.

 

He kept at it anyway.

 

Now he opened the book and picked at one poem randomly that he had not translated before. It was not very long; he could probably finish it before he would have to go to dinner. He carefully inscribed the Latin onto a sheet of paper, enjoying the round sound of the opening syllables ( _Mellitos oculos tuos, Iuventi …_ ) and began to parse it out, finding the verbs first, then locating their nominative subjects and their objects and pronouns and conditional adverbs, building the meaning up gradually, until he suddenly realized what he had written and his face slowly came over all burning.

 

_Your honey-sweet eyes, Juventius,_

_If anyone should let me constantly kiss_

_Then I would constantly kiss up to three hundred thousand_

_And I would not seem to be satisfied ever_

_Not if the field of our kissing were denser than ripe grain._

Gilbert rapidly closed the book, then folded the paper he had been writing on into a tiny square, and then for good measure, shut Ainsworth’s _Thesaurus linguae Latinae_ , which was open still to _osculatio (f.); gen. osculationis – the act of kissing_. Clenching the little wedge of paper in one hand, he laid his face against the cool leather binding which covered the volume of Catullus’ poetry. Even the tips of his ears and his eyes felt as though they were on fire. It was not merely the topic of the poem; it was – it was the subject. _Juventius_.

 

He had heard – rumors, whispers, and there were some older boys here who slipped into one another’s beds in the dark of night, and thought no one noticed, but Gilbert noticed, because no one ever saw him – it had meant nothing to him, at the time, but now –

 

He would put Catullus away. He would choose another writer. Or perhaps he would start on Greek. His Latin had improved greatly, after all.         

 

* * *

 

 

The word resounded in Gilbert’s mind as he took in the smooth, curved line of John Childermass’s lower lip. How had he never noticed the perfect symmetry of it before? The faint dark pinkness of the flesh there, and the contrast with the white teeth beyond it? Curious.

 

He focused on the word again. Where had it come from? It took a moment, but it came back to him suddenly, dusty Latin arising like a specter from the grave of his youth … _non si densior aridis aristis / sit nostrae seges osculationis._ He flushed to recall his naivety, and the warm mixture of mortification and excitement which had accompanied him as he had returned Catullus to the shelf that day.

 

“Are you feeling quite all right, sir?” Childermass inquired, looking at him oddly, and Gilbert blinked.

 

“I am fine, Childermass,” he said. “What was it you were saying? I was momentarily … distracted.”

 

Those lips curved up into a smile – no, not an ordinarily smile, as other men seemed to express themselves, but Childermass’s own peculiar grin, one corner of the mouth quirking up far to the side, while the other remained resolutely at its station; the lips stretching out into a mockery of humor. “You? Distracted, sir? I am not sure what you could possibly find more entertaining than discussion of the Admiralty’s opinion on magic.” He cocked one eyebrow, and Gilbert felt torn between annoyance, amusement, and a wholly new, uncharacteristic desire.

 

“Yes, yes,” he said dismissively, attempting to tamp down on the unusual thoughts pressing in upon him. “That is enough of that, Childermass. Shall we move on?”

 

Childermass stared at him for a moment, then turned, picked up the chair that sat in front of his own small desk, and carried it over next to Gilbert’s own chair. He sat down on it and peered intensely at his master. “Something is the matter,” he said with certainty.

 

“No, there isn’t,” Gilbert said, with all the frantic insincerity of a small child caught out at being naughty.

 

“You have been behaving in a strange manner towards me for days, sir.”

 

“Have I?” Gilbert exclaimed, honestly stunned. He did not think he had – but then, he supposed he was not always terribly proficient at understanding his own emotions. He had felt a little odd lately; Childermass’s presence had often given him a strange, restless feeling, as though there were something moving underneath his skin, some strange creature that wasn’t quite at home there. He had simply never paid it any mind. There had been so many other things to occupy his time; the grand pursuit of magic being chiefly among them. He supposed the difference was London. Everything had changed here. He had found the lack of solitude intensely disturbing at first, and then had been forced to grow used to it. He had been exposed to all sorts of people and ideas, the sort of which he had spent most of his time avoiding. And now he found himself looking at his man of business, who had worked at his side for more than twenty years, and for the first time found himself observing just how full and – and – _kissable_ (a word Gilbert Norrell had never thought in all he years of his life) his lips were. He found himself turning over in his mind the wicked verses of a Latin poet which he thought he had scrubbed from his mind long ago.

 

“Mr. Norrell,” Childermass said, “Let me be frank with you, sir. We are not at Hurtfew anymore. We are in a dangerous and hostile place, and if you wish to succeed in your purposes here, you must rely on me. You must not keep things from me. You cannot trust anyone here.”

 

“But I can trust you, can I?” Gilbert said, a little unhappily, for he found himself thinking of that terrible night not long ago when he had performed a piece of magic he could never confess to anyone, even Childermass, and raised Lady Pole from the dead.

 

“Have I ever done anything to betray that trust, sir?” Childermass said.

 

“N-n-no,” Gilbert murmured, and a warm flush suffused his face.

 

“Then please speak plainly, sir.”

 

He found he could not. The truth was there were so many things that he longed to tell Childermass, the matter of Lady Pole chief among them, and he rather feared that if he began with one, he might end with telling them all. And yet Childermass was so close, and so –

 

\-- he could not help himself, yet he could not speak –

 

All at once he surged forward and pressed his lips, forcefully and rather clumsily, against Childermass’s own.

 

The moment seemed to last an eternity, and yet also ended all too soon. Childermass’s hands drew up to his shoulders and pushed him gently back. He looked at him sternly.

 

“What’s all this about, sir?”

 

Gilbert shut his eyes tightly and wished desperately to disappear. “I apologize,” he said numbly. “That was … ill-advised.”

 

“Look at me,” Childermass said, clearly dropping the _sir_. “ _Look at me,_ ” he insisted, when Gilbert responded only by squeezing his eyes closed tighter. Gilbert opened them, reluctantly. Childermass looked very serious, and his lips – oh, his lips looked even more inviting than they had before. “Why would you do such a thing?” those lips were asking, and Gilbert tried to think of how he could possibly respond.

 

“I wanted to do it,” was all that he could say, rather lamely.

 

“Since when?” Childermass asked incredulously.

 

“Just this moment,” Gilbert said, but then thought a little, and wondered. Was that really the truth? Had he never found himself admiring Childermass’s confident smile, the warm, smoldering of his eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, usually unshaven, which looked like it might almost hurt to touch? Had he simply forced himself to push those observations away as they were simply too inconvenient? “Perhaps longer ago than that,” he admitted, shamefaced.

 

Childermass looked at him rather a long time, and Gilbert felt as though he might sink into the floor under the intensity of that stare. “Please,” he said at last, “let us forget this ever happened. I apologize again. It was unsuitable.”

 

“Oh,” Childermass said, and all of a sudden he grinned. “You want us to forget, do you, sir?” He placed his hands on either side of Gilbert’s face and held it, keeping him from ducking his head away or lowering his gaze. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible, Mr. Norrell.” And then he kissed him.

 

Gilbert thought perhaps the world might have ended and he had simply been too distracted to notice, for surely this could not be happening to him, at this moment, with this person. It was too wonderful and terrible. Childermass’s lips were as soft as they looked, and the scruff of his beard as delightfully rough against Gilbert’s own cleanshaven face. Gilbert didn’t know what he was doing at all, and yet Childermass’s lips and hands seemed to teach him, wordlessly, guiding his head to the side, parting his mouth, pressing and unpressing, until Gilbert was entirely out of breath.

 

“What –“ he began to say as they broke for air, but Childermass shushed him and then dove back in. He took one of Gilbert’s hands, which had been resting limply in his laps, and brought it up to rest on his own neck. The other he brought around to curve at his side. Touching Childermass felt electrical, almost as exciting as the glide of their lips against each other, which was occupying most of his attention. He could feel the little hairs at the base of his beck, soft and curly, and tentatively he stroked them. Childermass made a rumbling sound, and pushed insistently at Gilbert’s mouth. Something hot and wet pressed against teeth, and Gilbert opened his mouth more fully without really thinking about it; and then Childermass seemed to be almost devouring him, his tongue plundering Gilbert’s mouth with the utmost thoroughness. He gripped at Childermass’s hair and slipped the fingers of his other hand between the laces of his waistcoat, so that only the thin layer of cloth separated him from his warm skin. He felt Childermass tilting his head backwards and he was powerless to do anything but comply, though it made him feel as though he might faint. His tongue brushed tentatively against Childermass’s own, and a little frisson went through him; with greater eagerness, he mimicked Childermass’s own actions, which earned him a pleased sound.

 

They parted, both panting desperately for air, and Childermass murmured, still very close, “That’s just right, sir. You are doing excellently.”

 

Gilbert felt as though he might be on fire. With the hand that was wound in Childermass’s hair, he tugged him closer. “Don’t stop,” he murmured, and kissed him again.

 

It was as though he were being submerged in an exceptionally warm ocean. He lost all sense of time and space; his body moved sluggishly, weighed down by pleasure, as he shifted beneath Childermass’s which was leaning heavily against him. He explored Childermass’s mouth with his own, stroking along the roof of his mouth, along the rows of his teeth. Every so often Childermass would pull away just slightly and murmur something to him about how _that was perfect_ and _yes, do that again_ , and each muttered phrase seemed to set off sparks inside of chest, and make him eager to try even harder. (Gilbert had always responded well to praise.) He dragged his hands through Childermass’s hair more forcefully, found the bit of cloth which tied his unruly curls back, and pulled it out, then plunged both of his hands into the mass of it, scraping along his scalp, letting the strands of hair slip through his fingers. Childermass let out a chuckle inside his mouth – which set off all sorts of interesting vibrations within him – and Gilbert through wildly, _This, this is what it’s meant to be like, this is what that poem was about, and it’s more wonderful than I could have imagined – there could be nothing more wonderful –_

And then, abruptly, Childermass bit him. It was a shallow bite, a nip really, along the fat of Gilbert’s lower lip (not usually very pillowy, not like Childermass’s own, but swollen now from so much kissing). He let out a startled cry and froze. It didn’t … didn’t hurt, and yet … it seemed to set off something in him, something wild, and after the spell of his startlement broke, he moaned deeply, in a register he could barely recognize as his own. With all his strength (which was not considerable, but the element of surprise gave him extra force), he pushed Childermass back into his own chair, climbed into his lap, and bit right back.

 

Childermass let out a startled and enthusiastically pleased noise into their joined mouths. His hands slid down to Gilbert’s hips and clenched them tightly; then he pulled them close to his own, and arched his back upwards and ground their pelvises together. Gilbert let out a wild, ecstatic shout, and in response Childermass growled and ground their bodies together again. Gilbert was not certain he could withstand more of this. He felt completely out of control. He was kissing Childermass frantically, lips sliding against lips until they nearly hurt; his hands were fisted in his hair, tugging, sometimes gently, sometimes not so gently; he was letting out desperate inarticulate cries, which seemed to please Childermass greatly, for he answered them with his own grunts and groans; and his body was writhing enthusiastically, rubbing and arching into the one beneath it, which reciprocated with each thrust.

 

None of this was like the furtive attempts at self-pleasure he had resigned himself to his whole life. He could not have even dreamed of such thrilling sensations, so satisfying and yet leaving him desperate for more, and more, and more. The feel of Childermass’s heavy tongue in his mouth, his strong hands clenching his bucking hips, and his rigid – his – his ( _cock, his cock, Gilbert, you may as well just think it, for you are busy grinding your own against it_ ) – his _cock_ through his breeches – all of these things were so very intense, so wonderful, so real that they almost seemed like some sort of searing vision.

 

Their kissing had paused again, but their mouths were so close that they seemed to be sharing each other’s ragged breaths; Childermass was still murmuring too him, a sort of unending flow of praise, peppered now with filthy things that would have made Gilbert go scarlet if he were not already burning from head to toe. Gilbert’s hands trailed out of Childermass’s hair and slid over the planes of his cheekbones, along the lines of his jaw, and traced the corners of his mouth, which twisted up into a smile. He closed his eyes, for it was too much to bear. “Please,” he said, not loudly, for he did not need to be; Childermass was so close, and in any case, he understood.

 

“Of course,” Childermass said, “Gilbert.” And suddenly he was hoisting Gilbert up, before he could even react to the utterance of his Christian name, and pushing him down onto the desk before them. (Thankfully, it was free of books, and only contained a few letters which he had been reading earlier, and one which he had been writing; when it was eventually finished, the recipient, Lord Portishead, would be quite confused as to why it was so dreadfully wrinkled, and the ink a bit smudged in places, but eventually conclude that it must have run afoul of some dreadful weather on its journey from London.) Childermass spread him out on the desk, and then, propped up on one arm, surveyed him. Smiling, he traced a hand along that aching part of him, teasing through the cloth of his breeches. Gilbert made a noise like that of a dying thing. He thought for a moment, somewhat madly, that if Childermass opened his breeches and actually touched him, that he might become engulfed in flames. “Please,” he begged again. Childermass wordlessly reached up and stroked his bare head with its short clipped curls (his cap had fallen off at some point in the proceedings, and he had been entirely unaware of it until this moment, and found he did not care), then ran it down along his face. Gilbert reached for the hand and held it tightly with his own, and turned his head and kissed it. “John,” he murmured, and reached up further to tug him downwards.

 

Their kissing was less wild now, but more purposeful. Their bodies locked together and found a natural rhythm. Neither cared that they were still clothed, or that the inkwell and wax wafers and ruling pen had fallen off the desk and made quite a mess on the carpet. They lost themselves in each other. The weight of Childermass above him was so wonderful, and Gilbert felt as though their bodies were dissolving into each other. He certainly couldn’t seem to control his own anymore at all; it was following its own path and he was being trailed joyously along behind it.

 

And then he was falling, falling, falling, completely lost and anchorless but for the warm insistent pressure of Childermass’s mouth on his, and his hands gripping his arms, and the sound of his own cries as he found his own conclusion. It was so completely overwhelming that when he came back to himself he found that his face was wet, and Childermass had abandoned kissing his mouth for kissing and licking at his salty, tear-stained cheeks and neck. He had not realized that he was chanting, “John, John, John,” in a hoarse and faint voice. He only realized, and stopped, when Childermass returned to kissing him – a gentle, simple kiss, not unlike how Gilbert had kissed him the first time.

 

They lay next to each other for a bit, savoring the moment before everything became quite uncomfortable (the desk too hard, their clothes too dirty, Gilbert’s shyness reasserting itself), silent. At last Childermass murmured, somewhat warily, “You are thinking.” He propped himself up on arm. “What is it?”

 

Gilbert colored, and then replied, “Nothing … well, if you must know – I – I am thinking of Catullus.”

 

Childermass let out a startled laugh. “Catullus?” he repeated. “Why, exactly.”

 

Gilbert explained about the poem. By the end, Childermass was stifling laughter.

 

“Which one?”

 

Shame-faced, Gilbert mumbled a few of the lines that he could remember.

 

“Oh, that one,” Childermass said. “That’s hardly the worst of them, you know.”

 

“When have _you_ read Catullus?” Gilbert demanded, feeling a little embarrassed that Childermass found his youthful trauma so amusing.

 

“Oh, there’s many things you do not know about me, sir,” Childermass said, with equal amounts mockery and tempting promise. Gilbert hoped fervently to learn more of those things, if he could.

 

“You do know,” Childermass went on, somewhat thoughtfully, “there is another way to understand _osculationis_ in that poem.” He laid a hand on the edge of Gilbert’s thigh and rubbed his thumb against it in circles.

 

“Is there?”

 

“Yes,” Childermass said, and then spoke quietly into Gilbert’s ear about mouths and other parts of the body and how the two might mingle, until Gilbert felt it necessary that they both must rise from the desk and leave the library and retire to bed for the rest of the day.

 

And, he thought, perhaps he ought to read more Catullus in the future.

**Author's Note:**

> Giggleswick School is located in Settle, North Yorkshire, and was founded in the 15th Century. 
> 
> The translation of Catullus 48 is my own, which I luckily found written inside my Catullus textbook (otherwise I probably wouldn't have been able to translate it very well, I have forgotten most of the Latin I ever knew).


End file.
